WhitneySweets OneShots
by VallyDream
Summary: Stand alone fic. Each one had a different theme. Whitney/Sweets
1. Humor

**I love idea spawning. I'm sitting in a 60s Nightmare On Elm Street cafe and the wifi is costing me a dollar a minute. **

Whitney/Sweets: Humor

"Do you want to get married?"

The question caught Whitney so off guard that she laughed. She and Sweets had simply been sitting around her house, talking and laughing, when the question just came out of the blue. However, when she saw that he looked a little hurt by her reaction, she stopped laughing. "Oh- you're serious?" She asked, sitting up fully on the couch.

Sweets shrugged uncomfortably on the other end of the couch. "Well, I didn't really mean it the way it came out... it was a general question, not really a marriage proposal." He clarified.

"Why, you don't want to marry me?" Whitney asked, feigning hurt and attempting not to smile.

"After the reaction I just got?" He replied skeptically. "I'd be stupid to offer."

"No... you just caught me off guard is all."

"Okay, fine. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I just proposed to you." From previous conversations, Sweets knew it was better to simply humor his girlfriend sometimes.

"Then, for the sake of argument, I think I'd have to refuse." Whitney replied easily.

"What? Why?" Sweets asked incredulously.

"I don't know... It just doesn't seem right." The young woman shrugged.

Sweets frowned at her from across the couch and she could see the gears turning in his head. "Give me several good reasons as to you won't marry me." He said finally.

"What?" Whitney asked with a surprised laugh. "Several?"

"Yes... say, seven." Sweets replied seriously.

"Why seven? Lancey-Boo, you didn't even really propose to me!"

"One reason isn't really a legitimate reason to decline a marriage proposal unless it's a large problem. Five is simply an over-used number, and 10 is too many. Seven seemed to be a good median. Anyway, I may not have actually proposed to you but I'm still curious as to why you refused."

Whitney stared at the man sitting on her couch for a few moments, attempting to decide if he was actually asking her for seven reasons not to get married. Finally, she got up and headed for her desk. "Where are you going?" Sweets asked, watching her walk across the room.

"Where do you think? I'm going to make you a list." She told him.

"You don't have to write them down..."

"If I don't, you'll just interrupt me while I'm talking." He opened his mouth to argue, but she spoke over him. "Don't even bother denying it, you and I both know it's true."

Hearing the teasing tone in her voice, Sweets settled for a small frown in her direction and then sat back on the couch to wait for her list.

1. Work

2. We haven't been dating very long

3. I'm not sure I want to get married

4. Planning a wedding requires a ridiculous amount of effort

5. You're a genius and I'm less of one

6. You didn't ask my sister

7.

"These are all terrible reasons." Sweets said, glancing over Whitney's shoulder as she scribbled on a legal pad.

"Lancey-Boo!" Whitney dropped her pen and nudged him with her elbow. "I'm not done yet."

"You're only missing one and the rest aren't good reasons. I believe I asked for good reasons." He said, a smug edge on his voice as he sat down in the chair by her desk.

"These are good reasons to me." Whitney resisted the urge to pout slightly.

"Whinny, the only legitimate problem on there is the fact that you're not sure you want to get married." He pointed out gently.

"Well, work..."

"If we've made a relationship work this long, I don't think a marriage would be that much harder..." He looked pensive for a moment. "Speaking of which, how does dating for two years not count as being together for that long?"

"Some people are together for much longer before they decide to get married." The excuse sounded a little feeble, even to Whitney.

"I think it depends on how long it takes a couple to be comfortable enough to take that step. Most people are, in fact, comfortable doing so after two or three years."

Whitney scowled at him and he continued speaking. "If you don't want to plan a wedding, we could have a small one. I could certainly ask your sister if you wanted me to and... what is that supposed to mean?" Sweets asked, pointing to number five.

Blushing slightly, Whitney shrugged. "I don't know... I keep waiting for you to realize that you want someone as smart as you and not want to be with me anymore."

Sweet' look was bordering on flabbergasted before he leaned forward and kissed her soundly. "I don't want someone like me... I want you. Maybe your IQ isn't as high as mine, but I really don't care. You're intelligent, too. You're intelligent and compassionate and beautiful and anything good I can think of..." He was blushing as compliments rolled off his tongue, embarrassed to be baring his heart in such a way, but he looked her in the eye the whole time.

Whitney blushed as well and placed a kiss on his lips to silence the flow of speech. When the need for air became necessary, they broke apart and Sweets spoke again. "What's the seventh?"

"Hm?" Whitney asked, brushing her hair out of her face.

"I asked for seven reasons and I only got six." Sweets reminded her.

The raven looked undecided for a moment before she turned a mischievous look on her boyfriend. "You didn't get down on one knee..."


	2. Hurt and Comfort

**My mushroom and cheese sandwich looks like mush... **

Whitney/Sweets: Hurt/Comfort

Here he is, picking up the pieces for you. Again.

He's crying. At first, the sight of that really hurt you because Lance's the one person you never wanted to hurt, but you're numb to the image now. He cries a lot when he's with you and you wonder why. You wonder why he puts up with this all the time, why he rescues you over and over when you tell him you don't want to be saved. You tell him to give up but he never listens. Because you always call eventually, you call because you get too scared to do it alone anymore and you call because you know that he'll make it better and he always comes. Always.

You watch him dump shards of glass into the bathroom trashcan. His fingers have blood on them. Your blood. And he slices himself more than once on the glass as he throws it away but he doesn't wince, not once. He sniffles and he's not looking at you and you know why - because he hates seeing you like this. He hates when you let your anger out this way. He hates when you call after and not before. He wants to help you, he wants you to get the kind of help he can't give you, but you can't help but think there are just some things that can't be helped and maybe you're one of those things that can't be fixed.

And you just sit there and watch him wipe the blood from the linoleum floor. You're afraid to move, particularly your legs, because during the actual - what? Ritual? - it feels good, great, even, but once it's done and the endorphins are gone, it just really fucking hurts. So you stay as motionless as you can and watch him with your blood on his hands and you wonder what that means, symbolically.

Because you weren't always like this. You weren't always broken and incapable, you weren't always angry. You remember well the days you weren't, when you nearly as bubbly as Lance, as impossible as that seems. You close your eyes and try to grasp that kind of carelessness again, that hope and wonder - but you can't even remember how to make yourself feel those things and you can't even remember why someone would even want to feel those things. You just woke up and forgot one day. So you spent weeks and months trying to remember good things but everything that's bad crept on you like a big horrible shadow and swallowed everything up. And in a desperate attempt to remember you took your pocket knife and pricked the skin of your inner thigh; easy to hide with just a slip of your jeans and you didn't have to look at them if you closed your legs in the shower and pretended they weren't there. Your plan had been to never cut deep enough to scar, but soon nips and tiny slices weren't doing it for you. And you went deeper and harder and made the gashes wider and longer just because you could, just because you wanted to feel something. Anything.

Lance touches your knee and your eyes fly open, narrowing in on him. He's stopped crying, kind of, and he has medical supplies of all kinds in both of his hands. Neither of you say a word. You just open your legs and let him slide into them. And it stings and it burns but you only grit your teeth and tilt your head against the edge of the bathtub and you let him take care of you, you let him pick up the pieces because you either won't or you can't. Even if you could, you probably wouldn't, because why fix something if you're never going to use it?

You'd never admit out loud how weak you are and you're glad Lance doesn't point it out. He's always been careful about this, this picking up the pieces for you because you're too afraid of what it will look like when it's all put together again, and she never asks why you do this. Never. Not once. And you'd think that after the fifth or sixth time of stumbling in on a girl who is bleeding so profusely she can barely walk you'd start to wonder why, but Lance the kind of person who understands you to know that if you wanted him know these things, you would tell him and there's a reason why you don't. He never asks, he just takes care of you until he feels like you can be alone again. He helps you stand and walks you out of the bathroom, past the medicine cabinet mirror that you smashed on the side of the sink and back into your bedroom. The house is quiet and your room is dark and here you feel scarless. It's a nice feeling.

Lance sets you on your bed and you tentatively lay on your back, legs slightly parted. You're in just your t-shirt and your underwear and even though there are bandages on both of your inner thighs, it still hurts and you don't want them to touch. Lance curls next to you, his cheek on you shoulder, and the two of you sit in silence for a long time. You wonder what he's thinking. You wonder how he can handle all this shit from you, all of this self-harm. You wonder how he can come and save you at any time of night, regardless of what he's doing. You wonder why he tells you he loves you.

That's not normal. That's not fair. Why does he have to love you? Why does someone so perfect have to love someone so broken? And why can't you be better for him? Why can't you take all that anger inside of you and push it away? Why can't you put the razor away and call him for something normal, like asking for a date or something? Cutting yourself and then calling him to take care of you is hardly romantic, hardly fair for someone like Lance.

It's a terrible cycle. You're afraid to feel, so you slice your skin to feel something else but that's even scarier, and then Lance picks you up and dusts you off and you're afraid of what he makes you feel so you start all over. And it never stops and there's a part of you that doesn't want it to stop, you just want some kind of consistency even if it's broken and not good for you because at least it's familiar and something you know.

"This -"

His voice startles you so much you jump, wincing at the pain that spreads like fire up and down your thighs. You turn your eyes to his and through the dark you can see his big, brown eyes searching for yours. You're surprised to hear his voice because there's almost a commanding tone to it, a force that scares you. You'd do anything for him. You'd do anything he asked.

"This has to stop."

Except maybe that.

You flick your eyes away because you can't stand the hurt in his eyes. Why is he even hurting? He didn't do anything to you. You're just stupid and you can't control what little emotions you have. They just explode out of you and ask for blood and you give it to them because they scare you. And you tell people you're fearless and then you go home and slice your thighs until they're nothing but scarred masses of flesh. You're not the person you tell people you are, you're not the confident, brave, straight-forward Whitney everyone knows. You're just this dark person that no one really understands, not even Lance, not even you, and the fact that you don't know why you do these things really scares you. Not knowing why is scarier than knowing that you do it in the first place.

And Lance's asking - telling you to stop and behind those words are a thousand others that he isn't speaking. Words he's either too scared to say or can't find the way to put them together without hurting you. Maybe he thinks you're fragile; it isn't that far of a stretch, obviously. Because a girl could call you the ugliest person on the planet and you wouldn't feel a thing, but casting your eyes across the table at your bright, smiling sister or watching the sun dip and sink behind the trembling horizon proves too much for you and you take it out on your weak, screaming thighs. It isn't fair how the questions of someone who's dying plague you, how you can't stop thinking about where the point in everything is. Lance's always been the bandage you've needed, the stitches that hold you together for a while before they split and become something else. You're always becoming something else. But Lance brings you some kind of comfort. Because he's the kind of brightness you never understood, the kind of happy you used to have. And he holds your hands in his like there's nothing wrong with them, like they haven't been breaking mirrors or slicing your flesh or curling into fists when those thoughts make your mind a dark place to be. He holds them like they're innocent, like they've done no wrong. Lance holds them when no one else will take them. He doesn't take your hands because you offer them, he takes them because he thinks they're beautiful.

"Whitney?"

Lance kisses you too, sometimes. He did the first time you called. He stumbled in, panicking, and saw the blood and you were crying then because it was scary, letting someone see you without all of your walls up, and he just fell to his knees and kissed you like it was the only thing he could do to save you. At first you were thinking, 'what the hell', but then it felt kind of nice, because Robbie had kissed you a million times before that but it had never felt like that. It had never felt like Robbie actually enjoyed it or that he was doing it for any other reason than he felt like he had to. And that's why you drifted and that's why you both went different directions because you didn't know what you wanted and Robbie was tired of your indecision. But Lance, he kisses you. He kisses you like he means it, like he wants to. And not just to fix you. It's not like heMs trying to be something she isn't. He just loves you in the most simple of ways. And his job never mattered, none of that bullshit mattered - he's just a person, a really nice person, who cares about you and wants to help you when everyone else was afraid you'd whip back at them.

Lance's kisses are more than just two faces touching, more than just lips mashing against another pair. There's always been some feeling you don't understand and scares you behind it, around it, inside of it. Inside of you. And he doesn't just kiss you when you're broken - he kisses you when you're healing, when you're laughing, when the two of you are at the Founding Father, Royal Diner or work talking about silly things that make both of you smile. He just kisses you. He touches your chin and your hair and he kisses you. His lips tell you the things his voice can't.

He kisses your scars. When you're not broken, when he's gotten you to a point that he can touch you and hold you and forget that you crumble every once in a while, he splits your legs and kisses every single one of them. It makes you cry. It makes you shiver and cry. Because they're not ugly to him, they're just wounds from a battle, a war, that you're fighting and he knows that he can't help you, that it's something you have to ask for. He kisses your scars and he lifts you into a cloud of pleasure that might even be better than when that knife curls over your leg. And it's more than sex, then. Because there are your scars, right there, staring him in the face, and he kisses them. He kisses them and you moan his name.

You're pulled out your thoughts when Lance's face hovers over yours, brown eyes prying through the darkness and begging, pleading for you to tell him you will stop when you're not sure if you can or if you want to. Because when you're doing it, when you're slicing the skin inside your thighs, it's a spark, it's comprehension and movement. You're both afraid of it and intrigued and that seems to be every human's downfall. Deadly curiosity. But you want it, you want and need it to function because you can't stand the what-ifs, the maybes, the what-happens-after-this. You're just trying to find something to feel that isn't scary. You don't want to be scared anymore.

"Whitney, please." His hand flutters to your cheek and you just stare at her, stare at this person, this man, that has loved you at your worst and maybe, maybe he's something you don't have to be afraid of. Something can't be so scary if you know there will always be someone to pick up the pieces. He will be that person for you as long as you call.

You reach up, tangle your hands in his soft hair, and pull him down so you can kiss him and hear - feel all of those things he can't say.


	3. Angst

**This would be a some point after he broke it off with Olivia who I like better then Daisy...**

Whitney/Sweets: Angst

He moved the metal bar that opened the door to the gym, as quietly as he could. It was freezing cold as though the heat from the building didn't penetrate it. It moved smoothly, but the door creaked at bit as he opened it. The overhead light were on, but they didn't illuminate his favorite hiding place near the end of one of the bleachers.

He froze at the squeak of his shoes on the gymnasium floor as he walked. She didn't seem to hear him because she didn't stop or look around. He let out his breath with a whoosh and continued to his usual place of watching.

You mean stalking!

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with shaking fingers. He wasn't stalking her! Stalking meant that you followed the object of your obsession around. You drove past their house twice a day, or wrote long, rambling letters, or one of many other weird behaviors.

You are obsessed!

The voice insisted on reminding him that his personal obsession had the best of him once again. The slap of her gloves on leather and her hard breathing sent little tingles along the base of his spine. The heavy bag swung out under the onslaught of her kicks and she nearly lost her balance.

He smiled when she swore loudly, and hit the bag as if she pummeled the face of their most recent killer. The line holding the bag creaked as she kicked it with one sneaker clad foot. It looked like someone should be steadying the bag for her. He took one tentative step forward, but stopped. He couldn't just walk out there and ask her if she wanted him to hold the bag for her. She obviously wanted to be alone, which is why she came down her so late at night.

The lights of the gymnasium cast shadows near his hiding place so that if she looked over at him, she wouldn't see him standing there staring at her. He leaned against the edge of the bleachers and watched her wipe away the sweat from her face with the white towel around her shoulders. The black sports bra and black shorts showed off her toned, and cream colored, abdomen and legs.

His heart rate began to spike as he watched her beat the heavy bag into submission. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face. He didn't really like her hair that way. He liked it when her hair fell across her back.

She suddenly stopped and looked back over her shoulders as if she felt his hungry eyes staring at her body like a starving man at a banquet celebrating the end of the world. He jerked back, pressing his body against the hard wood of the seat. His heart raced and his hands began to sweat. She'd be angry if she knew he watched her this way. He couldn't stop though, ever since the first time he followed her down after a very tough case.

She'd gone back to punching and kicking the heavy bag. How did she have so much energy after such an exhausting week? He didn't know… He just wished he could find a way, as she had, to let go of all the horror and blood.

He peeked out around the bleachers again. She'd stopped, dropping her arms to her sides. The rage in her eyes, the horror and the sorrow for screaming children and crying parents brimmed over as if someone had filled it too fast. She threw herself down on the mat and put her arms on her knees. He watched as tears began dropping from her beautiful garnet eyes. She put her face on her arms and cried. Her sobs wracked her body and tore at his heart.

He made himself turn away from her and press his back against the bleachers. He wanted so desperately to go out there and put his arms around her. He wanted to feel the warmth and softness of her body. He wanted to say all the right things to comfort her and stop her tears. He looked back out at where she sat huddled on the floor and took a hesitant step forward. She looked up, not at him, but at the door opposite where he stood that led to the women locker room. He froze again in his tracks as she wiped impatiently at her eyes and got up from the mat.

He moved back into the shadows, holding his breath until he heard the door close. He let out the breath with a whoosh and cursed himself for once again failing to take a chance. His shoulders slumped as he headed to the double doors at the end of the gym.

He could stop and wait for her to emerge. He could pretend he'd come down for a workout instead of following her. He could say Booth had called them back for another case. He could make up any one of a thousand reasons to be there. The trouble was that any one of the reasons he could use, would make him sound like a pathetic jerk.

He hung his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He could wait for her to come out of the locker room. He could try to say something or do something to make her see that he cared desperately for her.

He looked up at the gymnasium doors and then at the elevator. It wouldn't do any good to fool himself, he thought in disgust. His courage wouldn't change over night to that of someone that she'd notice. He pushed the button for the elevator.

His personal obsession would have to wait until the next bad case. All he had was the hope that next time would be different.

Mushyroom :) 3


	4. Sickness

**Inspired by my food :) EXPENSIVE WIFI**

Whitney/Sweets: Sickness

Whitney had drawn the short straw. Because of which, she was now standing on the porch of Lance's home. What she didn't tell the others is that she really didn't mind being the 'sacrificial lamb' as was worded by Hodgins, 'going into the lion's den', that would be Sweets' home when he was sick. Secretly, she was longing to see her ex boyfriend, since he and Clark had been sent home with what was later described by both as the 'plague'.

Grasping tightly the coffee she had brought while trying to hold onto the two paper bags in her other arm, she reached out her finger and pressed his doorbell. While awaiting a reply, she studied the outside of his home. A home she had never been to. She always thought he moved into some tiny apartment, but it turned out, he resided in a brick duplex that was at the end of a block in a quiet older neighborhood. There was a corner market and coffee shop down the street, one he had mentioned in conversation he liked to frequent. He had an urn on his porch that contained a flowering plant, courtesy of Daisy. There were also three newspapers next to the doormat that he hadn't bothered to retrieve.

After no response to the bell, she put down the bags she was holding, and knocked on his door.

"Oi Sweets! Open up, it's me Whitney! Your ex-girlfriend."

A moment later, she heard what vaguely sounded like an "I'm coming", then silence. Soon after, she heard movement, then a crash followed by a loud "Owww!"

"Sweets! Are you okay?"

"Coming! Ahh!" Whitney heard a loud thud against a wall. Whitney stared anxiously at the closed door. A few expletives later and the door swung open, causing Whitney to step back in surprise.

"What?" Lance said as he leaned his head against the door and glared down at Whitney.

Grinning, she replied "Well, good afternoon to you too Sunshine."

Silence.

"So…..can I come in?"

Lance sighed, faced the door and pushed it all the way open with the front of his body, resting his forehead on the door.

Whitney swept past him. He turned his head and watched her start down the hallway. She stopped when she heard the door close. Glancing over her shoulder she asked where his kitchen was. Eyeing her suspiciously over the top of his glasses, he asked "Why? What did you bring?"

Patting the bags she held she informed him "Nourishment and" holding out the coffee to him "sustenance."

Crossing his arms, he grouchily stated "I've been drinking tea."

"Sweets, you can either say thank you and take this blasted coffee I got you, or you can wear it. Your call."

Stepping forward, he took the cup and mumbled "Thanks." He pointed to his right, indicating the direction of his kitchen. He watched as she sidestepped the mess he had made on his way to answering the door. He sipped on the dark sweet liquid as he followed her. He instantly recognized by its taste, that she had gotten the coffee from his neighborhood coffee shop. His favorite. He smiled to think that she had remembered that minor detail about him.

Curious as to what she brought, he moved over to the counter where she was unloading the bags. She took out a large container along with items that looked like they were for baking something. Picking up the container of cornmeal she had brought, he smirked, "So you lost huh?" Raising her eyebrows, she continued busying herself by putting a pot on his stove and pouring the contents of the container in it. Putting on the lid and turning on the burner, she turned back to the counter and collected her baking items together. "You know me Sweets, I love a challenge." Looking up, her stomach jumped at the intensity of the look he was giving her as he leaned on the counter, holding the coffee cup in his hands.

Standing back, she briefly took in his disheveled appearance. He was wearing a striped shirt that had holes in the front, giving her a small glimpse of the smooth skin underneath. Over that he was wearing a cardigan, two sizes too big and a pair of dinosaur pajama bottoms which were a present from Davie. She remembered Misty telling her that Davie had spotted them on a shopping trip with her. He had pointed to them and said "Uncle". So she couldn't resist and purchased them. Misty had told her about how surprised that they had them in Sweets' size. Whitney wasn't about to tell him how cute he was in them, but she made a mental note to mention it to him later. She loved catching him off guard, making him stutter and blush.

But the thing she found intriguing and all kinds of sexy about his appearance was the almost week-long growth of facial hair he was sporting. It made him look older, more manly and a little dangerous. It framed his uniquely sculpted face quite nicely. She imagined how it would feel against her cheek or him burrowing his face in her neck. Even kissing his mouth, her lips coming in contact with the stiff short hairs that were above his top lip. Running her tongue across his lips, down his chin. She glanced up to see him studying her. "Were did you go?" he asked. Inquisitively, he continued watching as she spun around and started looking through his cabinets. What is wrong with you Whinny? Suddenly you're getting contemplative about his facial hair? "Hey, do you have a baking pan?" He pointed to a cabinet by his stove. He pursed his lips wondering why she seemed all of the sudden nervous. Did she just want to hurry and get out of his home? Was she afraid of getting sick, or maybe just didn't want to be around him? The thought made him sad. The one person who he missed seeing the most was in his home and now he was afraid that she wanted to leave. Putting the thought out of his head, he asked her what she was making.

She went on to relate about Lisa, the cook her mother had hired, and that had followed her around. She said if children couldn't grow up in the same home, she always wanted to make sure the family had a taste of home. Whitney would spend much of her time with Lisa in the different kitchens she cooked in for wherever she was. The stew along with the cornbread she was making were dishes she had learned from her. Lance had gone to sit at the table, laying his head on his arms as she spoke and prepared the cornbread. Looking over at him, her heart skipped a beat at how sweet and how tired he looked. "Lance" she said softly. Opening an eye, he smiled "Sorry, I guess I'm still pretty tired."

"What were you doing before I got here?"

Yawning, he said "Laying on the couch, listening to some music."

"You go back to that. I'll let you know when I'm finished so you can eat. Okay?

"Whitney, you don't really have to go through all this trouble. I have a can of soup I can open…."

"Sweets! Pointing in the direction of the living room, she ordered, "Couch, music, march!" He pulled his lanky frame up from the table, giving her a salute he said "Aye, aye captain." and shuffled off towards the comfort of his couch. She watched him as he left. Apparently forgetting he was still in her view, he scratched his bottom, then ruffled the back of his hair and yawned. Wiggling her eyebrows at that site, she went back to rummaging through his cabinets to find the items she would need to complete the meal.

While the stew was simmering and the cornbread baking, she set about cleaning the dishes she used along with a few empty mugs that had held tea and a bowl with the remnants of some type of soup he had attempted to eat but didn't quite finish. Whitney was surprised at how much she enjoyed doing something considered so mundane. However, at this point in her life anything that didn't involve killers, crime scenes and someone's death at the hands of a psycho, was pleasurable, even washing Sweets' dishes. She straightened up the already tidy kitchen. It was obvious to her, that he didn't spend much time in that room of his house. Moving to the hallway, she picked up the items that had been scattered when he bumped into the small foyer table. She stood in the entrance of his living room. It was modestly furnished with a weathered-looking leather chair which unsurprisingly had a stack of books next to it piled in front of a floor lamp. It had a matching ottoman that had a tray sitting on it that held a discarded orange peel, various cold and flu medications and a half empty glass of water. There was an alcove next to a picture window that housed his desk that was filled with assorted files and covered with sticky notes. Smiling, she thought to herself that it looked like a desk of a busy, full minded individual. Her eyes then fell upon the sleeping figure of the young doctor. His head was splayed out on the pillow. He held a crumpled tissue in one hand and the remote to his stereo in the other. He had a blanket haphazardly thrown across his body, with one leg stuck out and hanging off the couch.

Moving silently around him, she picked up the various tissues, used and unused that laid about. She took the tray back to the kitchen, clearing it of its contents and wiping it down. She gave him a new glass of water, placed the medicines along with a box of tissue she had brought on the tray and put it back on the ottoman, within his reach. She gingerly took the remote out of his hand and put it on his coffee table. She went over to him and started to cover him better with the blanket when she froze as he started to shift in his sleep. She waited until he had settled back into a peaceful slumber before attempting to cover him again. As she did, one of his legs involuntarily swung out and he kicked her with his foot, causing her to yelp and jump. Worried she had disturbed him, she watched for a reaction, only to have him turn toward the back of his couch, snoring softly. She quietly giggled and returned to the kitchen to check on the meal.

Whitney sat in the kitchen flipping through a magazine, trying to occupy her mind and keep it off of the sleeping man in the other room. The sleeping man she wanted to awaken with soft kisses on his full lips. Were they as soft and as sweet as she remembered them or had she poisoned them? Would he awake in shock and be mad, or would he kiss her back and caress her face as he used to before he dumped her for Olivia? Why was she even dwelling on this? He hadn't wanted her there to begin with. So why would he desire to have her touch him, let alone kiss him. Shaking off the thought, she went to do what Angela suggested. Walking down the hallway, she found his bedroom. She wasn't surprised at how modern the room looked. Booth had been helping him renovate and Angela had made new bedding and curtains a housewarming gift to him. The colors were definitely masculine with hues of sable brown, slate blue along with punches of deep purple and forest green. The décor of the attached bathroom was in a similar color palette that was reflected in the towels, the shower curtain and the two rugs that lay in front of the sink and shower door.

Unable to help herself, she went and sat on his bed. She closed her eyes and smoothed her hands out over the comforter. I wonder what it would be like to be with him again. Whitney laid back, imaging laying there, limbs intertwined with his, his fingers running through her hair, over her body. Feeling the scratchiness of his beard on her bare shoulders, her thighs. Whitney started to hum in the back of her throat as her imaginings grew more vivid. Sitting up with a start, she wildly looked about her. He's in the next room! What is wrong with you! She sat still for a moment, trying to calm her wildly beating heart. Getting up, she walked over to the highboy across from his bed, quietly opening the first two drawers. She had found what she was looking for, a pair of his pajamas. She also retrieved a pair of mismatched socks. She took a clean towel from the shelf in his bathroom and placed the items on the sink counter. She checked in on Lance again to find him still asleep. She returned to the kitchen to turn the fire down under the stew and took the cornbread out of the oven to cool.

Lance's nose started to twitch at the aromas filling his nostrils. The scent of herbs and spices along with buttery warm ones wafted into his living room, rousing him from his sleep. His eyes slowly opened. The feeling of being more aware started to spread through his body. He clenched and unclenched his toes and started to stretch when he stopped. Looking side to side he realized that he wasn't alone. Whitney was in his home. He was alone with Whitney! His ex-girlfriend! He laid there for a moment wondering what he should do. Should he thank her and tell her it was okay for her to go, telling her he didn't want her to get sick? A crazy thought hit him. What if she wanted to stay, an idea he preferred, how should he handle that? It's obvious she's only here because no one else wanted to come. I can't be that unpleasant when I'm sick, can I? No, it's because your exes? Shrugging it off, he got up and padded to the kitchen. What he saw almost had him falling over. Whitney, having splattered something on her top, had removed it and was wiping it with a damp towel, leaving her top half covered in only a sheer red lacy bra. Sensing him in the room she whipped around just as he averted his eyes and covered them in embarrassment. "Sweets!" "I'm sorry! I didn't see anything I promise! Whitney tried to cover herself with a dishtowel. Lance, still covering his eyes, pointed to the hallway. "Closet, hallway, my go bag. There's a t-shirt." Scampering to the hall, Whitney found the t-shirt, pulling it over her head as she walked back to the kitchen. Looking down at it, she noticed it was emblazoned with YALE across the chest. She asked "Didn't you go to Cal-Tech?" Relieved that she hadn't decked him, he relaxed and said "Yeah, but Yale was my safety school. I had been accepted and they had sent me Yale gear along with my acceptance letter. "He shrugged, "I don't know, I just hung on to it." Nodding her head, she asked if he was hungry.

Rubbing his stomach he said "I could eat."

"Good. Now go sit."

"Whitney, I'm not an invalid and can serve myself you know."

"I know BunBun, I'm going to bring it to the table so you don't have to stand. I know you're still a bit weak and tired, so deal, okay?"

"Okay."

Whitney brought the stew and the cornbread along with some honey butter. "Mmm, it looks and smells wonderful!" Lance grinned widely as Whitney cut him a big slice of cornbread. He slathered a large amount of the honey butter on it and took a huge bite. Little crumbs stuck to the side of his mouth as he chewed making Whitney bite her bottom lip, thinking about how adorable he looked. She had the urge to reach out and remove the crumbs, but thought better of it. Lance stopped chewing as he noticed the sudden change in her demeanor. Mistaking her desire for anxiety, he asked if she was okay.

"I'm fine Lance, I'm just curious as to what you think of the meal." Whitney evaded.

Taking a generous spoonful of the stew, he closed his eyes and smiled. "It's absolutely wonderful. I can feel myself getting better by the moment." Opening his eyes, he winked and went back to his food. Whitney's heart fluttered at the gesture. Her spoon soon clattered to the table as he asked her "So you wanted to play doctor today, huh?"

Shaking her head in surprise, she leaned her head in question asking "What?"

Still eating his stew, Lance said "You know. Play doctor. I'm the patient and you're taking care of me, making sure I get better."

"Oh." Whitney was still surprised at his moments of naiveté in certain areas. She would explain to him at another time the implications of his use of that expression. Now was not that time, because embarrassed, he probably would herd her out of his home, never to let her return, and that was exactly what she didn't want. She liked taking care of him, as if he really was hers to take care of. They chatted about what was going on at the FBI while they finished their meal and she cleared the dishes. Standing up, he thanked her and asked if she wanted to stay and watch a movie. Her heart danced at the prospect of sitting in the dark with him, curled up on his couch, but first things first. "I'll tell you what, I would love to do that, but, I need you to do what Misty suggested I get you to do."

Slanting his eyes he asked "What is that exactly?"

Flicking her hand towards the living room, she said, "Go in there and I'll let you know in a bit."

He glanced over his shoulder at her a couple of times as he headed towards the couch.

Walking back to his bathroom with the bottle of essence of eucalyptus Misty had given her, she started running a bath for him. She put in the amount Misty indicated along with some foaming bath crystals. Curiosity had gotten the better of Lance as he heard the sound of running water coming from his room. He walked into his bathroom to see Whitney bending over his tub. Even in his haze of cold medicine and stuffy head, his body still reacted to her perfect curves and how easy it would be to reach out and pull her to him and memorize her curves again. He cleared his throat, looking at her with question in his eyes. "Hey!" Surprised how quiet he had been, she said, "You need to give someone warning that you are coming Lance!" Shrugging, he lazily and out of exhaustion leaned against the doorjamb "It's my house, you're the interloper." Wanting to wipe the smug expression off his face, yet kiss it at the same time she retorted, "I don't know many interlopers that would have fed your big head so well, do you?" He started to open his mouth to reply when she held up her hand. "Save it buddy. Now take off your clothes and get into this bath. Misty's orders. And if you don't, she'll be the next one to pay you a visit. Now do you really want that? Because she would treat you just like Davie."

"Don't forget, I've seen how Davie gets treated. That might not be such a bad deal."

Feeling a tinge of jealousy, Whitney snapped "That can be arranged."

Sensing she wasn't joking, Lance held up his hands in defeat. "Okay Sarge, I will partake in bath time. Are you sticking around to monitor my progress?"

Whitney felt a blush start to bloom over her face at his boldness. Must be the medicine talking. "No Sweets. You're on your own with this." Trust me, I would stay in a heartbeat. "You just get in and relax. Misty said the eucalyptus would be good for your congestion and I happen to quite like bubbles, and I'm pretty sure that there isn't anyone else in the world that doesn't like them." Smiling, she closed the door, leaving him to his bath and her longing to remain in there with him.

Whitney sat on the couch after having cleaned up the kitchen, flipping mindlessly through the channels, her thoughts on the man bathing just a room away from her. Her ears perked up as she heard his soft footfalls in the hallway. Her eyes lit up at his slim figure which now wore light blue pajamas covered in clouds and one red and one yellow sock. His hair was still slightly damp from his washing it under the showerhead. He grinned at her in the dim glow from the television. He went and plopped down on the other side of couch from her. "So what are we watching?" he inquired.

"I brought a couple of movies. I love this one, passing it to him, he studied the cover of The Philadelphia Story.

"Jimmy Stewarts in this? I think he was a great actor."

"Me too!" Whitney surprised at another thing they had in common besides work, got up to put it in the DVD player. She passed him the remote as she made herself comfortable on her side of the couch. Putting a throw she had found in the hall closet over her feet, she looked over at him as he started the movie sitting with his head in his hand. He looked sideways at her, disliking the distance between them. Catching his eye, she saw him as being tired and not irritated. Taking a pillow she was leaning on, she placed it on her lap and patted it for him to lay his head down on it. His breathing quickened at the thought of being in such an intimate position. Scooting his body down, he laid his head on the pillow as Whitney pulled his blanket over him. "I figure, you probably won't make it through the whole movie, so you might as well be lying down."

"You're so thoughtful" he deadpanned.

"Oh hush" she said as she lightly smacked him on his shoulder.

They laughed at the various comedic moments during the first half of the movie. She noticed his breathing eventually became even and slow. He's asleep. Should I leave? How am I going to get up without waking him? Great position Whinny, now you're stuck! I'll just wait until the movie is over. Maybe he'll be so knocked out he won't realize I'm gone. As she continued to try to watch the movie, she was more intrigued by him. His head was turned to the side, facing the t.v. His hair had started to dry, the natural waves curling tighter. She ran some strands through her fingers. It was so soft and smelled so nice. She leaned down closer to take in his scent. As she did, he suddenly turned, his face inches from her. Her heart started beating wildly, as the look in his eyes was of a different countenance than before.

His look was heated, smoldering at best. It wasn't the look of an ill man. It was one of purpose, of need, which apparently was to take her hand that had been in his hair into his and place it on the side of his face as he rubbed his cheek against it, and kissing her palm, causing her to gasp. Taking his other hand, he curled it around the back of her head, pulling her down as he lifted his head slightly. Trying to regain her wits, she stated "But you're sick and with Olivia." Fixing her with an intense gaze, he said thickly, "Do you really care?" Shaking her head "no", she fisted her hand in his hair as he met her lips with his with crushing force. His tongue hastily sought out hers as he pushed himself up with his free hand. Taking his hand from behind her head, he used it to pull her down as he moved over her.

Anchoring his forearm on the armrest, he rested it under her head and took advantage of his position, by deepening their kiss before moving down her chin, rubbing his cheek against hers, eliciting a sigh from her lips. She draped an arm over his shoulder, running her other hand under his pajama top and lightly scraping her nails up and down his back, making him moan as he kissed her neck. He snaked his hand under the t-shirt she wore moving his fingers back and forth over her stomach, causing it to contract and making her giggle. He smiled against her lips, "Ticklish much?" She let out another giggle that turned into a groan when he made circles over the lace of her bra with his fingernails, her body instinctively leaning in to his touch.

Using his tongue, he licked down the curve of her jaw to her neck. He whispered "I like having you in my shirt." Looking at him, her eyes darkening with emotion, "Wouldn't you like me better out of it?" The smile he gave was not a sweet one, it was ravenous and made Whitney squirm with anticipation. She lifted her arms above her head and raised her eyebrows. Moving closer, his lips brushed hers. He then yawned, not once, not twice, but three different times. Hanging his head down in embarrassment, she took it between her hands and made him look at her. "It's okay. You're sick remember. There are some things that are just going to have to wait."

"Did I ever tell you, how patient I'm not?" he quipped. "I know. I shouldn't have even started, huh?"

"No. I mean yes! I'm glad you did. Now I have something to look forward to when you're all healed."

Laying back, he pulled her to him, so her back was against his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, his leg resting lightly over hers, she placed the blanket over them both. With fingers intertwined, his cheek resting against the top of her head, they both fell asleep as the movie credits flickered across the television screen.

* * *

**"Oi Sweets! Open up, it's me Whitney! Your ex-girlfriend." Sadly, that is my favourite line. I can just picture her banging on his door going, "Oi Sweets! Open up, it's me Whitney! Your ex-girlfriend."  
**


End file.
